Death of Kings
by CallieMoon
Summary: When DI Lestrade is diagnosed with a terminal illness and given less than a month to live, he decides to have a go at fulfilling his New Year's Resolution list before the end. Alone on the Water, Mystrade edition.
1. Chapter 1

Hey, all! As a huge Alone on the Water fan, I've always wondered how a similar scenario would play out with my favorite ship, Mystrade. So, I decided to have a go at writing it. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

Greg Lestrade knew all about wounds. As part of his profession, he had witnessed all manner of nasty injuries. Stab wounds, contusions, bullet wounds, third-degree burns. Images from this grim catalogue kept him up at night, and he would lay in his silent, empty flat with his fingers pressed over his eyes, as if the red spots could pale the vivid red of the blood. Greg knew how to talk himself through it, though, how to numb the stinging. He had even sustained some of these injuries himself, but luckily, none of them were ever serious. Yes, he knew how to deal with wounds.

What he didn't know how to deal with was a sickness that took root deep inside of him, that had been quietly festering without his knowledge. He had thought it was the flu. The chills, fever, and fatigue had all pointed to the flu.

Acute myeloid leukemia. That's what the doctor had said. An unusually silent form that had somehow weaseled its way to the spinal cord and brain.

Lestrade stared at the opposite wall. A glossy poster on the door advised him to wash his hands thoroughly and helpfully provided step-by-step illustrated demonstration.

 _Step 1: Wet hands with water._

"I see," he said. "Well, uh." He cleared his throat and looked down at the polished tiled floor. "What are the options for treatment?"

 _Step 2: Apply soap liberally, covering the entire surface of your hands._

His doctor, a tall, blond fellow, had his hands clasped in front of him. The doctor tugged slightly at his sleeve. He was young, perhaps as young as thirty, and relatively new to the profession of delivering bad news, judging by his fidgeting.

"There's aggressive chemotherapy," he said. "However, it'll cause severe nausea and vomiting and very high chance of infection, due to the shortage of white blood cells. You'll be spending a lot of time in and out of the hospital."

"I won't be able to work."

"No," said the doctor. "It's a large time commitment with very severe symptoms. But in your case, chemotherapy might be to very minimal effect."

Lestrade nodded. He worked often with things so horrific that they were only spoken about indirectly, so he knew exactly what was being said. "It's incurable, then."

With his fingers, the doctor tugged at his other sleeve. He kept his watery blue eyes on Lestrade's, though they wavered behind his glasses. "Chemotherapy can add some time, but with side effects that significantly decrease your quality of life," he said in lieu of a confirmation.

Within the sterile white walls, the silence coagulated, as if the whole room were a carton of spoilt milk. The doctor's eyes trembled on his again in their effort to maintain steady eye contact.

"How much time?" asked Lestrade.

"With chemotherapy, up to half a year."

"Untreated?"

"Three weeks."

* * *

He did what he was supposed to do. He went right back to work: the appointment to receive his results was scheduled during his lunch break.

It was a slow day, with no criminals to chase across London. His tender muscles were grateful for it. He finished his work before six, but even as all the other officers went home, he remained in his office, working steadily through a stack of paperwork. In the middle of signing a sheet of paper, he briefly wondered when he would go home. A pang of anxiety chilled him. Here, in the office, he had paperwork to be done, a full barrel of the drug he craved, dull, soothing routine. At home, he faced an empty flat, research to be done, arrangements to be made, decisions to be closed. With a flick of his wrist, he signed at the X, then turned to the next page. He had the feeling that once he left the sterile coolness of Scotland Yard and stepped into the dark, windy London night, he would be leaving behind that comfortable assurance and stability forever.

Though, he supposed, it was already gone, and he would never get it back.

A chill ran through him. The idea of 'never' was completely different now.

He scribbled in details of the latest apprehension and signed again at the X.

At around 8:30, a knock sounded on his office door. Lestrade roused himself from his trance of paperwork.

"Come in," he called.

Sally creaked the door open. "Hello, sir."

"Sally, what are you still doing here?"

"Firstly, I was just coming back because I left my coat here," she said. "Secondly, doesn't that question strike you as hypocritical at all?"

He was silent. "Oh."

Her smirk dwindled. "Sir, it's getting late. Everyone's gone. Aren't you heading home yet?"

He looked back down at the paperwork and continued writing, willfully ignoring the pressure at the center of his forehead. "Still have a lot of work left," he said.

"All right," she said. She shifted her messenger bag to her other shoulder. "Well, just wanted to make sure you didn't need anything, sir."

"I'm fine, thank you, Donovan."

She cast one more look around the room and slid out the door.

He finally forced himself out of his chair at 9:00. As he walked out of Scotland Yard, he noticed a parked cab at the curb, and he stopped in consideration. He shook his head. He always walked home. He didn't need a cab.

When he arrived in his drafty little flat, he sank quickly into his worn sofa, his muscles aching. The moment he plopped down, stuffing erupted from a hole in the upholstery. He sighed and pushed it back in.

He stared at the blank television. All the words the doctor had said took on weight and pressed him down into the seat.

It took all his strength to fight against that weight, to reach for his laptop and open it. The bloody machine practically roared to life when he switched it on. It was over six years old and the casing gaped wide open, and it could make an airplane sound like background noise. He had been planning to replace it at the end of the year.

Lestrade carefully read about the symptoms of chemotherapy for his particular brand of leukemia: the hair loss, the daily nausea and vomiting, the other diseases he was very likely to develop.

He ran his hand gingerly through his silver hair. "Can't have that now, can we?" he chuckled. A quick look around the room reminded him of what he already knew, that he was talking to himself.

Lestrade turned back to the screen. He'd be bedridden most of the time, unable to care for himself, unable to continue working. Plus, the sheer cost meant that he'd also be broke. As he drew the curtains shut, half a year winked out with the streetlamps outside his window, casting the room into darkness.

Around the weak glow of his laptop screen, the vast darkness pressed in. Three weeks.

* * *

Before going to work the next day, he rummaged through his drawers. After all, he'd have to sort through all of that stuff sooner or later. For once, he was thankful for his painfully small flat.

He pulled out a crisp sheet of lined paper with carefully printed bullet points. As he read through the items, he realized that these were his New Year's Resolutions. He looked at the page and shook his head at the irony. When he was making it (sitting alone in his flat after a night of drinking with his colleagues), he'd had no idea what this year had in store for him.

He retreated to the edge of his bed and sank down to read it.

"Solve a difficult case without Sherlock's help

Not kill Sherlock

Eat healthier (fish and chips don't count)

Get a dog

Save up for new laptop

Donate money to victims of gun violence

Sleep regularly

Have dinner with Mycroft"

He read the last item, firmly crossed out, and sighed. The item wasn't crossed out for the reason he would have liked. It wasn't crossed out because it had been completed—more like because he was too afraid of even beginning to think about it. In fact, it wasn't so much crossed out as violently slashed out. He could feel the protruding line where his fingers rested at the back of the page.

It was impossible, but he sometimes couldn't help but wonder.

* * *

Please let me know what you think! Thanks so much for reading! :)


	2. Chapter 2

That morning, he had just settled down in his chair with a cup of steaming coffee when Donovan burst in.

"Islington, attempted homocide," she said.

He stood. "Suspect?"

"Ran off."

He dumped back his entire full cup in one gulp, then hurried past her into the hallway. She raised her eyebrows with frank admiration, then quickly followed after him.

Fifteen minutes later, their police cruiser wailed to a stop behind a row of other parked law enforcement vehicles. He stepped into the wide, empty road and scanned the neat shops and stores on either side. His team joined him.

"Donovan, come with me," he said. "The rest of you, go comb that alley."

They nodded and jogged in the direction he indicated. Donovan looked to him for instruction, her hair blowing in the thick wind.

"All right, we've got to make sure all the buildings are evacuated," he said. "This could get tricky. She could be hiding in one of the-"

"Sir!" yelled Donovan, pointing.

He whipped around. Across the street, the suspect had sprinted out of an Italian restaurant, gun in hand.

Their hands snapped to their weapons, and they ran after her. Donovan yelled into her transceiver, "We've spotted the suspect! Sergeant Hugh, she's coming into your vicinity. She's armed."

Lestrade shouted, "Ma'am, you are ordered to put down your weapon!"

She turned around once, then darted to a garbage bin. She hoisted herself up, and from there, jumped onto a roof-access ladder.

"You're surrounded on all sides," Lestrade called. "Make it easier for yourself, ma'am!"

The wide, empty street erupted into haze. His legs buckled. His knees and elbows slam against the sidewalk.

"Sir? Sir?"

Donovan's pounding footsteps had halted. He clawed at the cement for something to anchor onto, but his world keeled out of focus.

"Keep going!" he managed. "Leave me!"

He heard her footsteps resume and her dwindling voice yelling into her transceiver about an emergency. More footsteps approaching, and strong hands gripped his shoulders and arms. When everything tilted back into clarity, he was in the cool, air-conditioned interior of a cruiser, strapped into the passenger seat.

Donovan swung his door open. "Are you okay?"

He shook his head. "Yeah, fine, fine." The motion sent currents of pain crackling through his head. Ignoring it, he began to rise. "Where's the suspect?"

Both the seatbelt and Donovan's hand firmly pushed him back. "The suspect's in custody. Sir, what happened?"

He grimaced. "I tripped."

"I saw you. You were running, then you just stopped and fell down," said Donovan. "You don't stop before you trip."

"Really, I'm fine," he assured her.

Donovan planted her hands on her hips. "Sir, what's going on?"

He met her hard stare and nodded to himself. She would be a great Detective Inspector.

"This can't be spread around," he said in a low tone.

"Depends on what you tell me."

"Nothing illegal," he said. He barked a laugh. She remained silent. He looked away and inhaled deeply. He had heard and read the words so many times over the last two days, but he had never actually said them out loud. "Acute myeloid leukemia," he said. "Terminal. Three weeks."

In the silence, he could hear the far-off conversation of officers and the distant wail of sirens.

He saw his team approaching behind Sally. She noticed the flicker of his eyes and glanced back. Then, she turned back to Lestrade. Her mouth was tight. "Let me know if you need anything," she said before striding resolutely over to join the others.

As his officers chatted and the red and blue lights of sirens flashed over him, he carefully leaned his head back against the headrest.

So this was it.

* * *

During the drive on the way back, Lestrade debriefed the arrest with his officers. When he had finished, the officers turned to other conversation topics. Anderson launched into a humorous story about some in-laws. The officers all burst into laughter, then started telling stories about their own families. Sally, sitting at the steering wheel, met Lestrade's eyes. They both looked away.

He couldn't believe that he was going to live his last three weeks like this. In avoidance, in anger that had no words or reason, in wanting things he couldn't have.

* * *

The hospital offered high-quality end-of-life services. Amongst them was psychological care. Lestrade was a private man, but given his diagnosis, his lack of family, and the deep helplessness that swallowed him from the inside, he signed up for a session that evening. He had no time to waste, after all. But his last three weeks were just a wound he had to heal, a case he had to solve. He knew he could handle them. He just had to figure out how.

That evening, as Lestrade prepared to go to his appointment, he took a white T-shirt out of a drawer, preparing to change out of his work clothes into more comfortable, casual clothes. At that moment, his phone buzzed in his pants pocket. He reached in and took it out. Sherlock's name topped the screen.

 _I need three gallons of ice cream. -SH_

Lestrade looked up at the ceiling and groaned. He flopped down at the edge of his bed, throwing down his T-shirt.

 _Then go buy some. Jesus, Sherlock. -GL_

 _I can't. John's out. -SH_

His phone buzzed with another text. _Good evening, Inspector. If Sherlock is texting you about human organs, ignore him. If not, please disregard this message. -MH_

"Speak of the devil," he muttered, his eyes traveling to the Resolutions resting on top of his dresser.

 _Oh, hey, Mr. Holmes. Please tell me this is a coincidence and there's no link between organs and ice cream. -GL_

 _Ah. If you must know, my dear brother is conducting experiments on the effectiveness of various substances in preserving human kidneys. -MH_

 _Never mind. -GL_

He put down his phone, unbuttoned his day shirt, and slipped it off. He was pulling his pajama shirt over his head when the bed vibrated under him with a text message. His shirt still hanging from his shoulders, he picked his phone up. It buzzed two more times in his hand.

 _Lestrade. -SH_

 _Lestrade? -SH_

 _Fine. I refuse to solve your case if you refuse to help me with mine. -SH_

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. _We can handle it on our own. We're not as stupid as you think. -GL_

 _Then why did you bring the case to me in the first place? -SH_

 _Have you ever considered that I give you some cases to humor you, not because we're too incompetent to solve them ourselves? -GL_

The silence was a fraction too long. _Then I'll solve the case, but deliberately give you the wrong person as the killer. -SH_

 _You'd be locking up an innocent man or woman. -SH_

He sighed loudly. After a quick search online, he dialed the number of the nearest ice cream place to Baker Street and pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hello? Yeah, I'm sorry, this is a bit of a strange request. Could you go a few blocks down and deliver to Baker Street, 221B Baker Street? The recipient can pay you extra...No, no particular flavor. Just whatever you happen to have...three gallons of. Or enough to cover a kidney. A human kidney. Yeah. Thanks. Bye."

He hung up after the worker's quizzical, "...okay," then pulled his shirt down all the way. He folded his work shirt, checked his watch, and got up to head to his appointment when his phone chimed with a new text.

 _Whatever you do, don't listen to him. -MH_

A few minutes later, just after he had gone out his door, he received two simultaneous texts.

 _What the hell, Greg?! -JW_

 _I am deeply disappointed in you. -MH_

His mouth tugged in a smile. Maybe it'd all be okay if he just pretended.

* * *

His therapist was a man with a bushy beard and a fondness for black leather furniture. As he talked, he leaned back into his plushy couch and rested his hands on his pot belly. Lestrade briefly fancied that this was his father, rather than the absent, controlling bastard who had occupied that position. That man was deep in the ground now. The thought made Lestrade shudder, and this time, not because of the memory of his father.

"How are you feeling?" his therapist asked in a warm, rumbling voice.

During the car ride back to the Yard, all he could think about is how much he'd like to just talk to somebody. Now that he was actually there, he found himself with nothing to say. Engulfed by his own sumptuous chair, Lestrade shrugged slightly. "Well, fine, I mean-" He broke off. It had been a long time since he talked with someone this openly about his feelings. "I guess it hasn't quite hit yet. Suddenly having only three weeks left is a lot to handle. I guess I'm processing it a bit at a time."

He nodded generously. "Of course. What are you doing to cope with it?"

"Work. It's everything to me. Wouldn't give it up for anything."

"Is that because you're passionate about what you do or because it helps you avoid things?"

Lestrade tilted his head backwards. Through the ridiculous petals of the flower-shaped pendant lamp, the light still shone too bright, and Lestrade suddenly wanted to turn it off. Perhaps he could speak more easily if he were in the dark. "Both," he said, interlacing his fingers the other way. "I mean, I love my work, but yeah, both."

"I see." The psychiatrist clasped his hands in his lap and leaned forward. "And what is it that you're avoiding?"

"Going home." Lestrade shook his head, but the therapist furrowed his brow and nodded, as if he had said something immensely interesting. They were trained to react that way to anything the patient said, probably. He scribbled something on a pad of paper.

"Is there anything going on at home?"

"No. Well, I mean, that's the thing. I've been divorced for a few years. I live alone. Nothing going on at all."

The therapist repeated the "immensely interesting" routine: frown, nod, write. "Do you have anyone close to you who is supporting you through this? Parents, siblings, a girlfriend or boyfriend, anyone?"

He smiled wryly. "If I did, I wouldn't be here." He quickly amended, "Not that I don't have great friends, though. Just nobody who's really, well, you know, what you were describing."

"Do you regret that?"

"Of course," said Lestrade immediately. "I guess I've been hoping. If I had more time, I guess I would have, uh, at least tried."

The psychiatrist's eyes gleamed behind his thick glasses. "There's someone you care about."

"No, no," he replied, straightening. "No, I just meant it hypothetically."

Raising his eyebrows, his therapist asked, "Are you sure?"

He sank back into his chair. "Yes."

"It's not too late," said the therapist.

"I don't know about that," sighed Lestrade.

"Make a list of things you want to accomplish in the time you have," advised the therapist. "At our next appointment, we can discuss them."

Lestrade nodded. "Sounds good."

* * *

After his appointment ended, he returned to his quiet, empty flat. A heavy disappointment weighed him down. Somehow, he had hoped that a talk with the therapist would heal everything. Then again, he'd only had one meeting.

He went into his bedroom and took out the New Year's Resolutions. He rose, found a marker and a roll of tape, and pasted the list to the door.

This would work as a bucket list, he supposed.

He began to turn away. However, his eyes were drawn again to the last item.

God damn Mycroft Holmes. He'd been spending the last few days trying not to think about him. Of course, it had begun with a kidnapping. It was after he found Sherlock pumped full of all sorts of illegal drugs and laying in the street. Lestrade had refused to lock him up and instead sat with the young man in his parked police cruiser and talked with him until morning. He had then driven him home and sent him off with a few cold cases to play with. Apparently, that had struck Mycroft as curious at best and suspicious at worst, which resulted in an abduction and a meeting in an empty parking lot. After that, as he worked with Sherlock more and more, he spoke to Mycroft on a regular basis: chance encounters at crime scenes, meetings at Mycroft's office about Sherlock's messes, lengthy texting sessions on danger nights. He had learned that Mycroft could be witty without being sarcastic, that he loved rainy weather, that he hated the entire Polish embassy with a passion, and that he sometimes came dangerously close to caring. And, of course, that he looked bloody gorgeous in a three-piece suit.

He gave all the points on the list a once-over, tossing the marker in his hands. Sleeping and eating well weren't exactly relevant anymore, so he eliminated those items with a thick black marker line. Now, he was left with:

"Solve a difficult case without Sherlock's help

Not kill Sherlock

Get a dog

Save up for new laptop

Donate money to victims of gun violence

Have dinner with Mycroft"

Five items, three weeks. It seemed doable enough.

His fingers tightened around the thick marker, then slackened again. He cursed out loud at the fact that he wasn't quite able to completely blot out the final item.

* * *

Please review! Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

The saga continues! Thanks so much for reading and reviewing so far!

* * *

As he walked into the break room the next morning to fetch a cup of coffee, he carefully studied the expressions of his fellow officers. They all greeted him cheerfully, casually asked him if he was okay after yesterday's incident, and then went on to make small talk. He filled his cup at the dispenser, and as the old machine hissed and dripped, he watched them from the corner of his eye. Donovan had respected his wishes, then.

When Donovan herself walked in, though, he could tell that she was having a hard time. She still had trouble looking at him, but she was trying, he could tell. She smiled tightly at him and said hello in a quick, breezy tone. After returning her greeting, he sighed and took his coffee from the dispenser.

He wished he hadn't told her the truth. A year back, Anderson had told him how Sally felt about him, but he had already known. He wasn't a Detective Inspector for nothing. He and she both knew that he didn't reciprocate-it had been one of the most difficult conversations in his life-but somehow, he still felt bad about dying on her.

Despite the uneasy beginning, it turned out to be a good workday: no headaches or dizziness, just a little muscle fatigue. Mercifully, no criminals interrupted his peaceful, paperwork-filled morning. He did have to turn off the fan in his office, though. The day was unusually chilly.

As he filled out a report about the previous day's apprehension, a knock sounded on his door. He looked up. "Come in," he called. Donovan, for sure. He quickly prepared convincing "I'm not in pain"s and "I'm fine, really"s in his head.

Instead, it was his superior officer, DCI Anna Williams, who stepped lightly into the room. She was well into her sixties and her hair had gone completely white, but her gait was as fluid as any twenty-year-old's.

"Good morning, ma'am," he said, pushing aside his paperwork. "It's nice to see you."

She shrugged out of her blazer. "God, it's hot in here," she said, slinging her blazer over her arm. "Good to see you, too, Lestrade. It's been a while."

He grinned. "Yeah. Guess my division has been staying out of trouble." He resumed a serious expression. "Is there anything wrong?"

"Oh, no. Your division has been doing exemplary work, in fact," she said. "I just came with a request from a higher-up."

"Oh. The superintendent?" he asked.

"No, higher," she said. "It's the government."

He grimaced. "Oh, no."

The last time they had a request from the government, it had ended with them escorting a screaming Korean diplomat out of Buckingham Palace as three Russian diplomats lobbed chairs at them. The corner of DCI Williams' mouth twitched. Apparently, she remembered just as well as he did.

"Don't worry, it doesn't directly involve you this time," she said. "I just need you to pass this notice along to your division. The government is requesting protection."

"That's how the last one began," he groaned.

"It's a little different this time. We're not allowed to know the details, but apparently, some politician just pushed an extremely controversial deal through. Dissenters are trying to coerce this politician into relenting before the deal is confirmed in a few weeks, so the politician needs protection until then. The politician has sent a request to the police and the military for a temporary live-in bodyguard. Work hours are evening to morning, so whoever takes the job can still go to work. The reward will be hefty, I assume."

"I see," he said. "Doesn't the government have bodyguards they can supply?"

"The politician can't risk it. Anyone directly affiliated with the government might be an agent."

Lestrade laughed. "What a mess," he huffed.

"That's why we enforce the law rather than make it," said DCI Williams. "Unfortunately, that means that we have to clean up after the government's messes whenever it falls short."

"Well, we know how it goes," replied Lestrade. "The government's that friend who seems totally in control but ends up wasted. And we're that designated driver who gets their shoes vomited on."

DCI Williams grinned. "I like thy wit, in good faith," she said.

"Let me guess," he said. "King Lear?"

"Hamlet, Act V, Scene I, you uncultured swine," she replied, laughing. "The Gravedigger scene." Her grin softened into a smile. "You're doing a superb job. You're going to make a great DCI when I retire, Lestrade."

His hands clenched. "Thanks," he said quietly. "Glad to hear that you think so." He smiled brightly. "Well, I'll pass on the government request to my division."

"Great. Call me if there are any takers." She pulled her blazer back on. "Well, I have a meeting to go to. Please try to brush up on your Shakespeare before the next time I see you. I'd recommend Richard II for you."

"I have a feeling that that was a highly literary insult that went completely over my head," he said.

She chuckled. "No, not at all. I was only recommending Richard II because it's playing at the Globe right now. You should see it." DCI Williams stepped towards the door. "See you later, Lestrade."

"See you."

She shut the door behind her. He heard her exchange pleasantries with a few officers as her footsteps diminished down the hallway.

He found himself mentally ticking off this visit from a countdown he hadn't known he was keeping. At most, he'd see DCI Williams only two or three more times in his lifetime. Lestrade didn't want to think about the possibility that it was the last time, or about the deeply disturbing fact that she would outlive him.

DCI Williams had been, and still was, his role model. He'd had a embarrassingly obvious crush on her when he was in his twenties, but mercifully, she never called him out on it. She could quote Shakespeare like she was reciting her own phone number, her wit crackled and burned like fire, she was on first-name basis with the Prime Minister, and she had one of the highest solve rates in the country. Most admirable of all, she took the time to learn the names of everyone she worked with, cared for her team as if they were her own children, and still found time to raise a family. He had hoped that even if he couldn't match her sharp analytical skills, he'd at least be able to live up to her standards of compassion and leadership. It had been his life goal.

The day of reckoning had come much more suddenly than he'd expected, and he had no idea how he'd done. He wore his name like he wore his badge. Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. His work, his position, his duty had been his identity. According to his therapist, though, he'd somehow have to define himself beyond that name. He couldn't see how it was possible, let alone in so little time.

He ducked his head and reopened the file he had been working on. Focusing on completing paperwork would clear his head.

* * *

In the meeting room, his team took their seats around the ovular table. From where he stood at the front of the room, Lestrade noticed them rolling up their sleeves and fanning themselves with pieces of paper. He was still wearing a coat.

Since nobody had been hurt and the would-be killer was already in custody, the discussion wrapped up quickly. Lestrade waited for them to finish scribbling down notes. When they began using their pages as fans again, he spoke up.

"All right," he said. "We've got a rather interesting request from the government." The officers all looked at each other and groaned. He raised his hands to stop them. "Okay, first off, let me tell you that it's nothing mandatory and that there's a large reward."

The grumbling stopped. He smirked. He knew that the offer would turn heads.

"Some government official needs a live-in bodyguard for a few weeks," he said. "Evening to morning, so you can still come to work. I'll give details to anyone who's interested. Is anyone willing to do it?"

The officers murmured to each other. Anderson was the first to speak.

"Sorry," he sighed. "I really could use the money, but I can't imagine how this would sound to my wife."

"Yeah," said Donovan. "Same with my boyfriend. I wish I could, but this really isn't possible right now."

Lestrade smiled. "That's fine." Even though he was well aware of the state of their relationships, he couldn't help the pang of envy in his chest.

The other officers had all the same reasons: spouses to spend time with, children to care for. He listened, nodded, and made positive comments. It struck him that he was doing the same routine as his therapist. However, as each officer explained his or her particular commitments, the envy thickened inside him.

* * *

"I thought that people would be jumping at the offer," he said. "I think I've somehow forgotten that other people actually have lives outside of work-things that are more important to them. So, yeah, I guess that's something I learned about myself today."

His psychiatrist leaned forward in his black leather sofa. "And you've mentioned that you don't really agree with that way of thinking?"

"It's not that I don't agree," he said. "I'm just not like that."

"I see. Well, we'll work on developing more fulfillment in your life," the therapist replied. "Do you have your bucket list?"

"I found my New Year's Resolutions and taped them to my door. But if you want to talk about them, I can tell you them off the top of my head."

The therapist dipped his head. "I'd love to hear them."

Just then, his phone buzzed and rang loudly in his coat pocket. He reached in automatically, then glanced up at his therapist. "I'm so sorry. I have a friend who's kind of...volatile. Do you mind if I get this?"

He spread his arms. "Go ahead."

He thought his therapist would be displeased, but his therapist smiled and nodded towards the door. Lestrade supposed that the man was delighted that his client did have a life outside of work after all.

Lestrade stepped out of the room and stood at the curb by the road. He looked down at his phone screen. Just as he had predicted. Sherlock.

He picked it up. "Hello?"

As he said that single word, the street in front of him tilted. His phone dropped to the sidewalk. He faintly heard the thud. Backing up quickly, he grabbed onto the corner of the building. The rough stucco scraped his palm as his body weight dragged his hand downwards.

The world rushed back into clarity. He blinked, the whirling in his head ceasing. He blinked at the stable, unmoving road and the restaurants across the street.

"Hello? Lestrade? Hello?" said a distant voice.

He bent down to pick up his phone and pressed it to his ear. "Hey, Sherlock. Sorry, I dropped my phone. Do you need something?"

"Why didn't you answer my texts?" demanded the disembodied baritone.

Lestrade willed himself to focus on the scalloped green awning across the street. That way, the street hopefully wouldn't do cartwheels again. "I was in the middle of something, all right? My phone was on silent." He frowned. "Wait, how was my phone ringing out loud if I put it on silent?"

"Took it out of your pocket at the crime scene a few days ago and reprogrammed it to ring very loudly when I call," he said in a single breath. Before Lestrade could get a word in, he said, "You're never occupied in the evenings. Work ends at 5 PM and you usually go home around 6, sometimes as late as 6:30. It's 7:32 right now. Why weren't you available to answer my texts?"

Lestrade sighed. "I don't know whether or not to be flattered that you've memorized my entire schedule."

"You haven't answered my question."

"My schedule's changed, all right?" he sighed. "Jesus."

He heard Sherlock draw in a breath. "Ohhh," he said. "You're completely avoiding telling me where you are and what you're doing, and you sound rather nervous...You're on a date, aren't you?"

He groaned. "No. Listen, I have to get back to what I was doing. Could you tell me what's going on?"

"My lovely brother is enforcing a curfew on me until I take his stupid government case," he said.

"Well, then take the stupid government case," replied Lestrade. "You don't fight Mycroft Holmes. That's like fighting against taxes."

"Tell him he's being ludicrous," said Sherlock.

"What? Me?"

"You're friends, aren't you?"

Lestrade huffed. The words made him angry; he couldn't quite understand why. "What makes you think that?"

"Even if you didn't listen to him, you were texting behind my back last night."

"Hmm." He sighed. "Sherlock, just take the case. I'm not going to sort out your sibling rivalry."

"The case is utterly ridiculous, though," complained Sherlock. "Something about a conspiracy amongst his bodyguards. I am personally shocked that they hadn't attempted to kill him sooner."

Lestrade was silent.

"Lestrade?" prompted Sherlock.

"Bodyguards?" asked Lestrade.

"Yes, apparently some of them tried to kill him because of one of his latest political maneuvers, and he suspects the web of conspiracy extends even farther. I don't really see what the big fuss is, but apparently Mycroft thinks its a matter of extreme-"

"You and your bloody pride," he said. "Sherlock, I know you're already on the case, so you really don't need to pretend you're so reluctant. If I can see right through it, imagine what Mycroft's thinking by now."

"But I want no part in his stupid-"

"Look, I have to go back, okay? Just tell him that you're taking the case."

Sherlock's sigh nearly caused his ear to go deaf. "You are absolutely infuriating."

"Thanks. Glad the sentiment is returned. See you later."

He hung up quickly. Pocketing his phone, he strode back into the room, where his therapist sat, waiting.

"Took care of it," he said. "Sorry. Any call from him could have been an emergency."

"No problem," assured his therapist. "I'm glad you took care of it."

Lestrade took a deep breath. "Okay, this is kind of crazy, but something on my bucket list just came up in the weirdest way."

"Do you want to talk about it?" his therapist asked.

"More than anything, but it's classified."

His therapist laughed. "I'm sorry. That, I can't help you with."

Lestrade frowned thoughtfully at the opposite wall. "It's fine," he said. "Let's continue the session."


	4. Chapter 4

So, this one's a bit of a short one. However, a new chapter will be up very soon!

* * *

Sitting on the sofa with his dinner on his lap, Lestrade stared at his television screen. The characters were laughing about some joke that only made sense to regular viewers, and the phantom audience laughed along with them. He chewed on his forkful of chicken and salad. He didn't even know what this show was, but it chased away the darkness and silence, so it served its purpose.

He picked up his phone and grimaced. He didn't want to send this message, but all of his other friends were absolute shit with emotional matters, so he had no choice.

 _Hey, Sally. Do you mind if I ask you a somewhat personal, and maybe painful, question? If not, that's fine. -GL_

Sally's replies always came quickly. _Sure, go ahead. -SD_

He had been formulating this text in his head for the last hour. _When you like somebody, but it's impossible to be with them, do you find that it's easier to forget it or to pretend? -GL_

This reply came more slowly. _I don't know why you're asking me or what specifically you're talking about, but I would normally say that pretending makes it worse. But forgetting isn't as easy as you might think, and in your situation, pretending may be the best thing you can do for yourself. -SD_

 _Thanks. You're a great friend, Sally. Really sorry. -GL_

 _No problem. Let me know if you need anything. -SD_

 _Or want to talk. -SD_

She was doing exact the same thing as he was, he realized.

He forced himself to exit the conversation.

As soon as he had, he muted the television and dialed DCI Williams. She picked up on the first ring.

"Inspector? Is everything all right?" she asked.

He assured her, "No, no, I'm fine. There's no emergency." He only realized that it was a lie after he said it.

"Well, I'm glad it's not a hostage situation again. What do you need?"

"I was just inquiring about the bodyguard request," he said. "Any takers yet?"

She sighed. "No, unfortunately. No one seems keen on leaving home for almost a month."

He took a breath. "Then I'll take the job."

She was briefly silent. In the background, he could hear her grandson babbling. "I don't know, Lestrade. With your position, it'll be quite a time commitment. We could continue looking for someone else to do it-a Sergeant, perhaps."

"No," he said. "Ma'am, I don't really know how to explain, but I-I want to do this, I-" His voice faltered. DCI Williams waited silently. He exhaled slowly and spoke in a careful, quiet tone. "I can't explain now, but I need this. It's the last thing I'll ask for."

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. For a few moments, all he could hear was the child's distant babbling. He feared that DCI Williams had somehow figured it out: acute myeloid leukemia.

"You've got the job, Lestrade," she said. "No need to explain to me."

He breathed a sigh. "Thank you," he said. "Seriously, thank you."

"Of course. I'll let the government know. Is there anything else?"

She had detected something, then. Nothing slipped past her notice.

"No, nothing else," he said briskly. "Thanks a lot. Bye."

She returned his goodbye and hung up. He put his phone down on the armrest next to him and stared ahead at the silent colors, movements, and expressions on the television screen.

He was Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He was everything his position implied. He was exactly what it said on the tin: down-to-earth, realistic, cautious, and aware. But he was also dying.

Mycroft Holmes' bodyguard. The personal protector of the most powerful man in England. Of course, that was all it would be.

It was enough, though. More than he ever could have dreamed. After all, as he came home to the man's doorstep every evening, it wouldn't be such a great leap to pretend.

* * *

Reviews make my soul sing. Thanks so much for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

Thank you so, so, so much for the reviews. Thilbo4Ever, I especially appreciated your offer to help me hit the high notes ^^ I hope you enjoy the upcoming installment!

* * *

He changed into a loose-fitting white shirt and lounge pants, then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. The muscles of his legs ached, so he settled carefully down on the edge of the bathtub. The contact point flared up with bruising pain. He quickly stood back up and finished washing up. Then, he switched the lights off in his bathroom and began to head to his bedroom.

Outside the living room window, the cutting lights of a vehicle caught his eye. He walked to the window and peered out.

"Not now," he groaned.

On the wooden coffee table, his phone lit up and buzzed.

 _Get in the car, Inspector. -A_

He walked to the door and opened it. He shivered at the biting breeze.

"I'm in pajamas," he objected to the woman waiting by the sleek black car. She reached into the car and wordlessly pulled out a black fleece jacket. Sighing, he walked to the car and took it from her. "Thanks," he said, shrugging it on.

He slid into the car, and the interior lit up. As he buckled his seatbelt, he noticed for the first time Mycroft Holmes, sitting calmly beside him.

"Jesus Christ!" he yelped.

Mycroft glanced towards the man, looking down at him over the point of his aquiline nose. "Good evening, Inspector."

Lestrade ran a hand through his hair. "S-sorry, I didn't see you there. Good evening to you, too." He glanced at Mycroft's impeccable three-piece suit and then looked down at his own outfit, lounge pants and a loose white shirt paired with a ridiculously incongruous fleece jacket. "Sorry that I'm underdressed. In my defense, I wasn't expecting to get kidnapped right before I went to bed."

He arched his eyebrows. "I do not 'kidnap,' Inspector," said Mycroft. "Kidnapping is a crime. On the contrary, I simply explain to people that it is in their best interests to come with me."

The inspector burst into laughter. "That's the most suspicious thing I've ever heard. I should have you arrested."

"That would not be in your best interests, Inspector."

"Exhibit A," he replied.

Mycroft simply turned away. Then, he said, "You've taken up on my offer, Inspector. I have to ask you several questions before I employ you."

"Sure."

"Were you aware of my identity when you accepted the offer?"

Lestrade nodded. There was no point in lying to a Holmes. "Yeah, I was. Sherlock said something that tipped me off."

"I see," said the government official. "I must say that I was surprised."

"About what?" he asked.

"I am well aware that you dislike me," said Mycroft. "After all, I did, as you phrased it, 'kidnap' you several times."

Lestrade almost laughed. If Mycroft only knew. He didn't know how to respond to that.

Mycroft continued, "What was your motive for accepting, Inspector?"

"I needed the money," he said immediately. That was never a lie.

"I will reward you according to your performance," said Mycroft. "You will receive a payment at the end of each week. However, we will begin with a down payment of 500 pounds."

"Oh my God," said Lestrade. "Seriously?"

He would have done it without the monetary incentive. Then again, the reverse was also true.

"However, you will only receive it if you comply with my questioning," he said.

He was used to the Holmeses. With them, nothing was straightforward questioning. He straightened his posture and watched Mycroft carefully. "I will," said Lestrade warily.

"Do you have a criminal record, Inspector?"

"Many, but none of them are my own," Lestrade replied. "Also, no, I wouldn't lie for a monetary reward."

Mycroft inclined his head.

"Tell me about your surviving family," he said.

"There's nothing much to tell," said Lestrade. "I have some cousins up in Doncaster. And an ex-wife in Kent, if that counts. That's it, really. Nobody that people could use as bait, if it came down to that kind of situation."

Mycroft nodded subtly. "Very good, Inspector. One final question—"

"Hold on," Lestrade interrupted. He peered into the rear view mirror. A pair of headlights screamed out at them, growing at alarming speed. "Gas pedal!" he shouted. "Now!"

The driver only glanced back once before stepping on it. With a roar, the car sped down the road. Both he and Mycroft jerked forward in their seats, the seatbelts snapping back to accommodate them.

A red light hurtled up in the windowpane. Lestrade glanced quickly behind him. The headlights plunged towards them at terrifying speed.

"Run it!" he and Mycroft said together.

The driver didn't even slow down, swerving to avoid oncoming traffic. Cars honked all around them. The yellow headlights wove through the oncoming vehicles, vanishing and reappearing behind them.

"Pedestrian!" yelled Lestrade.

The driver swung into the next lane just in time as the terrified young man dropped his shopping bag and ran to the sidewalk. His hair was blown back by the speed of the car that hurtled right after.

"Okay, we need to get to a highway," said Lestrade. "I'll play your game, but we have to get out of the commercial area. We can't get people hurt with this."

"The bridge," said Mycroft. "Now."

The driver launched into an illegal U-turn while changing lanes, sending up another ripple of honks. Then, their car merged into traffic and sped towards the streetlamp-illuminated bridge.

"They're still following," said Mycroft, gazing at the yellow headlights that swung crazily after them.

A gunshot rang through the honks, followed by a shattering noise right behind the two. The vehicle suddenly lost speed as the driver slumped at the wheel.

"Okay, okay, I've got this," said Lestrade. He unbuckled his seatbelt and jumped into the passenger seat, putting his foot on the gas and one hand on the steering wheel. The car picked up speed, and he flicked on the turn signal and swerved into the opening in the next lane. The twin lines of the bridge's streetlamps stretched wide to swallow them.

Another gunshot rang, ripping first through the back window and then past Lestrade through the front. He winced away.

"What the hell kind of test is this?" yelled Lestrade, steering into the next lane with one hand. "There's a busy city center on the other side of this bridge. Are we going to just lead them there?"

Mycroft unbuckled and reached forward to free the unresponsive driver from his seatbelt. He hauled the driver out of the seat and into the backseat. Lestrade quickly shifted into the driver's seat, and Mycroft clambered into the passenger seat and grabbed the steering wheel.

"Inspector, get out of the car," he said.

"You think I'm going to fall for that? I'm your bodyguard!" shouted Lestrade.

"Inspector, get out of the car," he repeated firmly.

Another gunshot tore through the window, cracking Lestrade's view of the street into unrecognizable fractals. Both of them ducked for cover, causing the car to slow. In the rear view mirror, the yellow headlights grew to blazing circles.

"Okay, sir, roll down your window and get into brace position," said Lestrade.

"Excuse me?"

"Do it. Now," Lestrade ordered.

Mycroft rolled down his window, fastened his seatbelt, and covered his neck with his hands. Lestrade took a deep breath, fastening his own and pressing the button to activate his own window. Then, he stepped on the gas and swerved the steering wheel all the way to the right. The car veered out of the lane, bumping violently as it hit the curb. He grit his teeth, keeping his foot pressed to the gas. As the car smashed into the railing, he assumed the same position as Mycroft. The screech of rent metal was the last thing they heard before the airbags punched the air out of their lungs and the car hurtled over the edge of the bridge and plummeted in free fall.

* * *

The adventure will continue in the next chapter! See you next time!


	6. Chapter 6

The whole vehicle jolted with the second impact of the car on the surface of the Thames. Water rushed up all around them, gushing in through the open windows.

"We have some time," said Mycroft, reaching towards his seatbelt.

The car tipped forward with the weight of the engine, submerging the vehicle entirely. Cold water roared in from the windows, flooding up to their knees as they unbuckled themselves and reached for their respective windows.

"We need to get the driver," said Mycroft.

"We can't carry him. We'll drown." He looked around the rapidly flooding car. "Do you have anything that can cut seatbelts?"

Mycroft slid the car keys out of the engine. "Use the jagged edge."

Water rushed in on all sides, now rising up to their waists. While Mycroft reached back and held the driver upright, Lestrade used Mycroft's car keys to cut away the seatbelt. Then, he wiggled the bottom of the seat free of its track. He tied one end of the seatbelt to the man's wrist and buckled in the other end. He reached towards the airbag, cut it free, and secured it as tightly as possible over the man's head.

"I'll get him," said Mycroft. He heaved up the man's form and pushed him through the window into the water.

They both took a deep breath. Fighting against the strong current of water gushing in, they clambered out their windows into the cold waters of the Thames.

Lestrade glanced back. Mycroft was out. He kicked off of the car's surface and pushed with all his might through the thick black water.

The ghostly, bobbing white lights grew brighter and brighter, and his head burst out of the cold water into the windy London night. He gasped for air and pushed the sopping wet hair out of his eyes. Mycroft's head surfaced between the floating reflections of the streetlamps, his hair plastered against his slick forehead.

"Are you okay, sir?" he asked.

"Fine," he replied. "And you?"

"More or less intact," he said.

The carseat floated up to the surface, and Lestrade swam over, reached underwater, and slung the driver's head and torso over the seat. Mycroft took the airbag off of the man's head. Only a little water had seeped inside.

"No risk of second-hand drowning now," said Mycroft.

"Where's the shore?" he asked.

"The shore is that way," Mycroft said, slightly breathless, nodding in the direction he described. "However, I have already called for assistance."

As he said that, a faint whine caught Lestrade's ears. He looked up. A police chopper flashed its lights above them, spiraling down rapidly.

Lestrade kicked and pushed down with his arms to make sure his head stayed above the water. "I have to say, that was the craziest job interview question I've ever been asked," he said.

The water rose ahead of them, and Mycroft tilted his head up for air. "I wish I could take credit, but that was not part of the interview, Inspector," he said. "I did not plan that."

Lestrade blinked. "Holy shit." The wave rolled towards him, and he, too, quickly tilted his head up, taking in a lungful of air. "I see why you need a bodyguard."

"You have the job," said Mycroft before the wave submerged both of them.

* * *

Later, Lestrade and Mycroft sat in the helicopter with blankets around their shoulders and Sally Donovan standing over both of them. The driver lay in a separate chamber receiving medical attention.

"I'm glad that you two are okay," she said, "but I just can't understand what happened."

"That makes two of us," said Lestrade. They both looked at Mycroft. He was combing back his hair.

"All right, Mycroft, what the hell was that?" he demanded.

Mycroft paused in the grooming. "Somebody wants me dead," he said. "The rest is, of course, classified."

He flashed them one of his political smiles, then returned to combing. Even with a blanket around his shoulders and his three-piece suit soaked with the Thames, he succeeded in looking intimidating.

"Since I got dragged into this, I think you owe me an explanation, so I'll be asking you again later," said Lestrade. "Hopefully, you'll have a rational explanation by then."

"I did give you the opportunity to exit the car," said Mycroft. "I hardly call that dragging someone into the situation."

"You also dropped by my house when I was just about to go to bed and kidnapped me,' he said. "I hardly call that consent."

"For the last time, I do not 'kidnap,' Inspector," he said. "And I maintain, you were given a way out."

Lestrade huffed. "I'm a copper, Mycroft. There is no such thing as a way out when someone else is in danger."

Sally nodded sagely. "He's right, you know."

Being royally pissed at Mycroft Holmes was a refreshing change from dying of leukemia, or being in love with said man.

Mycroft gazed thoughtfully out of the helicopter window, the propeller thrumming through the silence. Then, he turned his eyes steadily at Lestrade. "I would remind you that unless a binding contract exists, there is always a way out."

The man took a breath. Damn it, he already felt the hot anger leaving him. "And I would remind you that when it comes to life-threatening situations, no contract is necessary."

And now he was cold.

Sally noticed Lestrade shivering. "Here," she said, draping an additional blanket over his shoulders. She looked up at Mycroft. "Bloody Holmeses," she said. "I'll never understand your lot."

The helicopter touched down on a rooftop landing pad of a hospital. Medical personnel in white coats stood awaiting their arrival, upturned faces illuminated by the flashing helicopter lights. The helicopter's medical crew descended first. They bore the wounded driver on a stretcher, and several of the doctors followed swiftly after them. Then, as Sally accompanied Lestrade and Mycroft down the clanking metal steps, a group of doctors walked towards them.

"We need to get you checked out, just in case," said a middle-aged doctor. "Which of you were directly involved?"

Sally stepped back. "These two, ma'am."

Lestrade sucked in a breath. This wasn't part of his plan.

"All right, come with me."

They stepped into the wide elevator and she pressed a button. The group began to descend.

As various hospital wards slid past him through the immaculate pane, Lestrade swallowed thickly. He glanced over at Mycroft, who stood pillar-like beside him looking more or less himself, though his clothes were darker and limper than usual. Lestrade took a deep breath, running through possible solutions to his newest dilemma.

The doors slid open. The doctors led them down a white hallway to a private ward. It was as Lestrade had dreaded. It was a double, with Mycroft's cot and his right beside one another.

"Sit down," said one of the doctors.

He did as told. The doctors made light conversation with him as they took his heartbeat, blood pressure, and other basic functions. On the other side, he could see the doctors performing the same check-ups on Mycroft.

"We're going to draw some blood to analyze for other potential issues," said the doctor. "Do you have a preference for which arm?"

Lestrade looked up at her, then glanced back at Mycroft. He was laying back in his cot, the blood-drawing needle already drinking from his smooth, pale arm.

"Uh—about drawing blood—" he began.

Mycroft glanced towards him, the needle still in his arm. "Do you have a fear of needles, Inspector?"

 _When the blood draw results come back, he's going to know about the condition. He's going to have to fire me. And with Mycroft knowing that I won't be around for long, any slightest hope there ever may have been will be completely gone for good_ —

He shook his head. "No, no, it's fine. Go ahead and draw. Left arm is best. Sorry for the fuss."

The doctor swabbed down his skin and pressed the needle in next to a nasty scrape. Lestrade grimaced until the needle was drawn out.

"We'll run an analysis and get the results back to you in fifteen minutes," she said. Then, she and Mycroft's doctor went out the door together.

* * *

The updates will be coming more slowly from now on since I don't have the rest written yet. I hope you'll stay with me in seeing Greg to the end of his story!


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you so much for all the reviews. It means so much to me. To be completely honest, I've been going through a bit of an emotionally difficult time, and seeing these reviews light up my day. I love you all!

* * *

Immediately after the door clicked shut, it burst open again and hit the wall. Both men started. Sherlock strode in, John jogging down the hall to catch up with him. Lestrade swore under his breath.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, we can't just come in here," John protested. "We're not allowed to be in a private ward."

"Of course we aren't," replied Sherlock. "But how can they deny me a visit to my dear friend and my darling injured brother?"

Lestrade and John choked.

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "I know that you didn't come for me, Sherlock," he replied. "However, I'm glad that you've decided to take the case."

"I wasn't planning on it, but it seems to be getting interesting, don't you think?" he said.

"Now there's an understatement," said Lestrade. He glanced at the clock mounted above the door. Only a minute had passed. The blood test results wouldn't be coming back anytime soon, especially given their contents.

"Jesus, Sherlock. They're in the hospital," said John. "Can't it wait?"

"They're fine," said Sherlock dismissively.

"All right. Just get on with it," sighed Lestrade, massaging his forehead. The quicker they made it, the more likely it was that they would leave before the doctors came back with the blood test results. He could probably find some way to keep Mycroft from hearing, but he definitely wouldn't be able to evade all three of them.

Sherlock said, "I already know the background of this case, so we don't need to go over it. My first question is for Lestrade." He turned to the DI, who was still in his pajamas. "Detective Inspector, why were you there?"

He looked at Mycroft, unsure what he was allowed to disclose. Mycroft replied, "I have mentioned the strange behavior of my bodyguards. To prevent any of them from amassing too much confidential information, my personal staff, with the exception of a few key members, rotates every May. This year, it was at the time the deal was enacted. I began to notice small acts of sabotage from my new staff. Thus, I suspended most of my staff while I investigated the matter and meanwhile sent out a request for a new live-in bodyguard not directly employed by the government."

"That's me," said Lestrade.

Sherlock frowned. "You took the job? Why?"

"I needed money."

"How charming," replied Sherlock. "It's little wonder that you can't earn a living, given your detective skills."

Lestrade sighed. John mouthed "sorry" behind his back.

"I had taken him for a brief interview when Detective Inspector Lestrade noticed that there was a car pursuing us," Mycroft said. "When we attempted to evade it, it began shooting."

"And then you just ended up in the Thames?" asked John.

"We had to get out of the commercial district to avoid injuring any innocent bystanders," said Lestrade. "We went out to some bridge and our driver got shot. They shot at us two more times, and so I deliberately drove into the water."

"I assume they fled when they saw the police vehicles and helicopters," said Mycroft.

"Did you recognize the vehicle, Mycroft?" asked John.

"I did not," he said. "However, whoever was driving that car was familiar with government vehicles or had access to my garage. My car's windows were bulletproof."

"Two possibilities, then," said Lestrade. "Either they created special bullets that could break your windows—"

"—or someone in your garage changed your windows to regular glass," said Sherlock. "That much is obvious, Detective Inspector, and goes without mentioning."

Lestrade usually would have snapped back at him, but today, he was too distracted watching the clock. John spoke for him.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," said John. "You don't have to be pissy to everyone just because of this situation."

Four minutes had passed since the doctors left with his blood. He had about eleven minutes left to get rid of the pair, go find his doctor, and speak to her privately before she announced the news for everyone to hear.

Lestrade looked back at John. "Has he been going on about it all day?" he asked. His fingers drummed on his mattress.

"Pretty much, yeah," said John, with the long-suffering expression Lestrade had previously seen on soldiers fresh from discharge. "He can't believe he actually has to help his brother."

Lestrade sighed and turned to the younger man. "Well, Sherlock, the car is at the bottom of the Thames now. If you want to investigate this case, that'll be your next step."

Sherlock stepped towards the door, and he hoped that Sherlock was miraculously taking the cue and leave the room. However, he turned around abruptly and walked back, pacing the length of the room. Lestrade drew in a breath.

"Lestrade, how could you have driven the car into the river?" he demanded. "That is the most definite way to completely remove or destroy the scant evidence there is."

"My God, Sherlock," said Lestrade, his voice flat and devoid of anger. "What should I have done? This maniac was chasing your brother and I down this bridge heading right into a busy city center and sending bullets through our windows."

"Your brother and me," corrected Sherlock.

"Your brother and me," Lestrade said tiredly. "If we went any further down the bridge, we would have been bringing this shooter into a densely populated area. Is that what I was supposed to do?"

"Of course you were," said Sherlock. "It's what they planned. They were testing how willing you were to risk the lives of British citizens. Your driving into the river showed them that you were willing to sacrifice your own lives to protect those of civilians, which was exactly the wrong thing to indicate."

"And why is that?" asked Lestrade dully.

"Because they now know that they can use the lives of citizens as chess pieces," replied Sherlock. "Isn't it obvious?"

I'm dying and I have to deal with the fact that you're all about to find out, he wanted to say. Nothing is obvious to me anymore.

Mycroft opened his mouth. However, at that moment, they heard footsteps down the corridor. Sherlock and John exchanged a glance.

"We'll continue this discussion later," said Sherlock. He pulled John by the wrist towards the window. The two of them concealed themselves behind the curtain just in time as the doors opened.

Lestrade stiffened as a doctor walked in, a sheet of paper in hand. However, he turned not to Lestrade, but towards Mycroft.

"Your blood sugar is looking a bit high, but otherwise, you're completely healthy," the doctor said. "You are at mild risk of diabetes. Would you like to discuss lifestyle changes and possible dietary changes?

Lestrade could just hear the laughter behind the curtain.

"No, thank you," said Mycroft firmly.

"Anyhow, our specialist would like to have a quick discussion with you to address any questions you may have," the doctor said. "If you would come with me, please?"

Mycroft bit back a sigh and rose to follow the doctor out the door. Lestrade heard a murmur behind the curtain, followed by a quiet, "Shut up."

The door opened. As Mycroft followed his doctor out of the room, Lestrade's doctor came in with a sheet of paper in hand. He knew from one look at her expression what she had to discuss.

Lestrade considered somehow revealing Sherlock's and John's presence in order to get them expelled from the room. He knew that he couldn't do that to them, though. Mycroft was gone. It was the best he could hope for.

His hands clenched at his sides. His doctor stepped up to him. Her brow was furrowed.

"Before we proceed with your blood report, I'd like to ask you a question," she said.

He glanced back at the curtain, then looked back up at her. "Go ahead," he said, drawing in a deep breath.

"Your platelet count is at an alarming level. Have you already been told what that means?" she asked.

He nodded, struggling to maintain eye contact. "Yes. I have." He nodded again. "I already know."

"All right," she said. "I will give you the report. You can look over it."

"Thanks," he said, taking it from her. His heart felt tight and heavy. He had known exactly what she would say. However, he still somehow hoped that she would tell him that everything was normal, his platelet count had checked out, it had all been a mistake.

"There are no other issues, besides that one," she said. It sounded ridiculous to both of them. He could tell by the way her face scrunched up slightly, causing her glasses to slip down her nose.

"Well, thank you, ma'am," he said.

"Of course," she replied. She turned and walked out of the room. The door shut behind her.

There was silence behind the curtain. Lestrade sighed.

"Well, out with it," he said, turning to face the window. "I want to get this over with before Mycroft arrives."

* * *

Super random question to y'all: do any of you know a Sherlock in real life? If so, how the hell do you deal with him/her/them?


	8. Chapter 8

Full disclosure: I, too, am dealing with my own Sherlock right now, which is why I asked the question in the previous chapter. Socially inept geniuses are incredibly perplexing to deal with, aren't they?

Thanks so much for following this story! Here's the latest installment...

* * *

John was the first to step out. The fabric rippled as it slid over him.

"Oh my God," he said. "Greg, what she said about your platelet count—"

"I know," Lestrade replied. "It's exactly what you think it is."

Sherlock stepped out next. "What? What is it?" he asked, looking to John.

Lestrade suddenly felt like a small child, sitting on the edge of the cot with Sherlock and John standing over him. He opened his mouth, then also looked to John.

"Leukemia," said John quietly.

"Terminal," Lestrade added. "Three weeks."

Sherlock moved his lips, but no sound came out, and he looked away. He took a loud audible inbreath.

Lestrade took a breath. "All right, I don't know how to ask you two this, but—" He exhaled slowly and turned to the tall man. "Okay, Sherlock, I just have one request. If you don't agree to this, I won't give you cases for—I'll tell my department not to give you cases for a month."

Sherlock still wasn't speaking.

"Yes, he'll agree," said John, moving closer to Sherlock's side.

"Let me explain," Lestrade said. The words came with difficulty. "Slowly, I'm realizing that my whole life, I've been doing things for others. Chasing other people's monsters, solving other people's mysteries. Don't get me wrong, I've loved it. God, I loved it." He shook his head. "But now, the truth is, I'm dying." He drew a breath. "I made a list of things that I want to do before the end. And what I'm doing—what I just did—that was one of them. This is something I've wanted for years, and when this opportunity came up, I knew I had to do it for myself. I knew I had to give myself at least this."

"Give yourself what, Inspector?" asked Sherlock.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway. Lestrade grimaced and started to gesture vaguely. The two stared at him blankly.

The footsteps grew louder.

"What are you talking about, Greg?" asked John.

Lestrade looked up at the two.

"Just don't tell Mycroft. Please," he murmured.

The door opened and Mycroft stepped through. John stepped aside for Mycroft to pass.

Sherlock whirled around to face his brother. "So, brother, it seems that you'll have to reduce the intake," he said. "How are we feeling about that?"

"You know that my diabetes was at least partially caused by a genetic predisposition," said Mycroft. "A genetic predisposition which you were fortunate not to have."

"Yes, but it seems that if you don't quit smuggling yourself sweets, you will be genetically predisposed to not fitting anymore in your precious three-piece—"

"Stop it, Sherlock!" snapped Lestrade.

All three men looked at him with surprise. Lestrade ducked his head. John glanced at Mycroft, then looked back at Lestrade. He drew a breath and inclined his head.

"Oh," he said quietly.

Sherlock looked at him, frowning with confusion, but John shook his head slightly. Lestrade sighed with relief. He knew John would explain it to him later in whatever way he thought best.

It was a refreshing change, he had to admit: he and John being the ones in on the solution to a mystery and Sherlock being the one in the dark.

With all his deductive powers, Sherlock clearly sensed this. He said shortly, "I think the two of us have had enough for today. John and I will be leaving now."

He unbuttoned and tore off his long coat, revealing a full set of scrubs underneath. John pulled off his jumper and pants to uncover his matching uniform, then stuffed them inside a black doctor's bag. He took Sherlock's coat from him, folded it carefully, and slid it inside as well.

The two of them took surgical masks out of their pockets and slipped them over their faces simultaneously. Lestrade and Mycroft watched this entire display, vaguely impressed.

"I don't want to know where you got all of those," said Lestrade.

"Neither do I, but unfortunately, I do," said Sherlock to John. "Come on, let's go."

The two men slipped out the door, leaving them to speculate.

* * *

Well, the cat is out of the bag...but Mycroft still doesn't know. Please let me know what you think! Thanks so much for reading!


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